


si je devais choisir

by mybelovedcheshire



Series: La Liminalité [2]
Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Gen, also somebody take grantaire's phone away from him, cute coffee date, modern!AU, no seriously way too much meta and expository writing, too much meta
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-04
Updated: 2013-02-04
Packaged: 2017-11-28 04:37:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/670351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybelovedcheshire/pseuds/mybelovedcheshire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part of the "Liminalité" series, in which I wanted to explore moments where the boys were trapped between two states of being. </p><p>Combeferre has coffee with Feuilly, and realises as Feuilly leaves that he’s one of the only Amis without a romantic interest. He’s surprised by that, but he believes it’s because he doesn’t really have time for dating. </p><p>He doesn’t consider the possibility that when faced with the choice, he will always without fail choose his friends over everyone else -- including himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	si je devais choisir

Combeferre reluctantly checked his watch. 

Fifteen minutes past the hour -- fifteen minutes past when Feuilly had said he needed to leave. But the artist was bent over a napkin, laboriously sketching some kind of abstract pattern that even Combeferre didn’t understand. 

In fairness, he didn’t need to -- and that was half the reason that he didn’t really want Feuilly to go. 

He could tell by Feuilly’s forced attention on his work that he didn’t necessarily want to either. 

They liked having coffee together. It was a kind of retreat for them -- not that they didn’t cherish their loud, and angry friends, but they weren’t quite as adamantly violent as the others. They could shout and debate as hotly as the rest of them, and they often did -- sometimes they scared the coffee shop’s other patrons the way they went on about even the most vaguely political problems. But that wasn’t their natural state of being. 

They were the curious ones. They cared about knowing all the answers, rather than the right one. The right mattered -- but it was just one step in a long path of things that were important. 

Leaving meant stepping back into a very demanding world, and despite the habit, no amount of coffee could really prepare them for that. It was the quiet reassurances they shared that made the demands almost cheerfully tolerable. 

Combeferre slowly put his cup down as he asked: “Hey, don’t you have to go?” Was it his imagination, or did Feuilly cringe? 

The resident artist looked up, glancing at the clock on the far wall. He nodded. 

Combeferre smiled apologetically. “Where are you going?”

“Bahorel’s,” Feuilly answered, folding the napkin over and stuffing it in his pocket. The way he said it implied that he wasn’t just going over to have a beer and chit chat.

“And that’s bad.”

Feuilly sighed as he straightened up. “He’s... set up a blind double date.”

Combeferre tried to reel in his immediate revulsion to the very idea. 

Feuilly made a face that very clearly said: “Exactly,” and drained the last of his coffee. 

It wasn’t that he didn’t like Bahorel -- the exact opposite. Bahorel was his best friend. He just didn’t have quite the same taste in women that sort-of-a-law-student-but-not-really did. 

Before he’d met Grantaire, he’d thought that absolutely no one had the same taste in women -- but oh, how wrong he was. 

There was a certain level of irony in sitting there with Combeferre, who had never once in the years that they’d known each other tried to set him up with anyone. But if he had, Combeferre might have tried introducing him to a fellow artist -- someone with a passion for painting, or sculpting, or who at the very least knew a bit about art history. 

Bahorel’s last ‘good idea’ had involved a perky blonde barista who worked in a museum café. Coffee plus art, Bahorel had reasoned -- it couldn’t possibly fail. 

It had. It had failed spectacularly. 

“Is it too late to bail?” Combeferre asked. Feuilly nodded. 

As Bahorel had reminded him that morning, there were certain sacrifices that friends made for friends. 

“Unless you want to go in my place?” Feuilly suggested hopefully. 

Combeferre laughed. He wasn’t inclined to gross exaggerations, but there wasn’t much on earth that he wanted less than that. “You should go,” he encouraged. “Maybe it’ll go well this time.”

“Maybe the club will be forced to close because of a biohazard?”

“It’s entirely possible.”

Feuilly smiled at that. He stood up, grabbed his bag and held out his hand. Combeferre looked up at him in confusion, but shook it. “In case we don’t meet again,” Feuilly explained. Combeferre rolled his eyes. 

Feuilly marched out of the coffee shop with a funeral solemnity. 

Combeferre picked up his book and sat back, stretching his legs out under the table. He didn’t have anywhere he needed to be, and he was just as fond of sitting in cafés and reading as he was of sitting in cafés and discussing social problems. 

But ten minutes passed before he even opened his book. And even then, he closed it immediately, and stuck it back in his bag. He felt restless. As much as he wanted to read, he itched to talk -- to converse with someone. 

The other patrons were very comfortably paired off -- some quite snugly. He looked away. 

It was a Saturday, he rationalised. Bahorel and Feuilly might be busy, but there was a chance that someone else in their group might not be. 

He pulled out his phone and scanned his contacts. Joly and Bossuet had gone to Poissy with Musichetta. Courfeyrac and Jehan would inevitably be together, and occupied in ways Combeferre preferred not to think about. 

At which point he was grateful for Enjolras. He typed out a quick text, and packed up his things. 

He was genuinely shocked to get a reply from Grantaire a minute later. 

[grantaire] you need to save me.  
[grantaire] this isn’t a drill. please help.

He blinked. 

[combeferre] Where are you?  
[grantaire] chez enjolras. i think he’s going to pee himself.

Combeferre shouldered his bag and left the coffee shop. 

[grantaire] robespierre should not be this exciting for anyone.  
[grantaire] he couldn’t answer your text because he’s fucking swooning.  
[combeferre] You’re watching that new documentary, aren’t you?  
[grantaire] I JUST WANTED TO PUT MY HANDS IN HIS PANTS

He was very lucky not to walk into a lamppost. 

[combeferre] I didn’t need to know that.  
[grantaire] he’s usually cute when he’s excited  
[grantaire] but now he’s just creepy  
[grantaire] i think he’s got a boner for robespierre  
[grantaire] do you think he’d fuck me if i found a robespierre costume?  
[combeferre] Please delete my phone number.  
[grantaire] OH MY FUCK I THINK HE’S CRYING. SAVE ME OBI COMBE FERRE-NOBI. YOU’RE MY ONLY HOPE.

Combeferre shoved his phone into the bottom of his bag where he could forget that it existed and trudged home. 

As he walked, he considered his options. He knew there was a new play on Jean-Benedicte Avenue, but it wasn’t until late that evening. He could always stop by the hospital to see if his friend Sainte-Hilaire was around, but what with it being a Saturday, it wasn’t all that likely. 

He climbed the stairs to his apartment meditating on the fact that he actually felt slightly lonely. 

His friends had paired themselves off, and he didn’t begrudge them that -- but he had to wonder why he wasn’t compelled to do the same. He’d dated a few girls -- pretty, intelligent girls -- and thought they’d hit it off fairly well. Not well enough, evidently, but he’d never ended a relationship on a disastrous note. It’s not like he wasn’t interested, he thought to himself as he hung his bag on a hook by the door and flopped down in an armchair. 

He just didn’t seem to have much time for relationships. There was always something else to do -- someone to help, or some activity he had to attend. He had his studies, and his friends, and the Amis’ gatherings. That barely left room for sleeping -- never mind for sweethearts. 

Combeferre played with his keys absently. 

It was early yet, but perhaps he could go to a bar that evening. He didn’t mind going by himself -- if he went with his friends, he’d have spent more time playing parent and designated sober companion to really focus on the other people there. 

If he went alone, someone might catch his eye. It had never happened before, but he’d seen Grantaire and Bahorel do it often enough. 

Though, in reality, taking life lessons from Grantaire and Bahorel was probably a terrible decision. 

Still, he committed to the idea. It didn’t sound unappealling -- if anything, it would be an adventure. He was fond of trying new things. 

A few hours later, he had convinced himself that he was actively excited about the prospect. He’d changed his shirt, brushed his hair, and did a little double-take in the mirror. His friends would have laughed themselves hoarse if they knew -- but that was the whole point. They weren’t around, and he was independent. 

He only just remembered to dig his phone out of his bag before he went for the door. There were a dozen missed calls and messages -- he ignored any and all from Enjolras and Grantaire, and skipped straight to the ones from Jehan. 

[jean prouvaire] hey, are you around?  
[jean prouvaire] combe?

There were two missed calls as well, and Combeferre frowned at the sudden surge of guilt. He stuffed his keys in his pocket as he called Jehan back. 

“Where are you?” Jehan’s voice answered immediately. 

“My apartment. Something wrong?” He leaned against the door. 

“Can I come up? I’m outside.”

Combeferre paused briefly as he registered what Jehan had said. “Outside my building?” He asked, quickly straightening up and pulling the door open. 

“Yeah.”

He was halfway down the stairs already. “I’ll be there in a second.”

Jehan scrambled inside the moment Combeferre opened the door. He’d forgotten his coat, and the temperature had plummeted as soon as the sun went down. He was fairly pale in general, but at that moment, Combeferre could see a blue tint around his mouth. 

“Are you alright?” He asked immediately, covering Jehan’s small hands with his to give him some relief from the cold. 

Jehan nodded. “I wanted to talk to you about something.”

There was no hesitation. Combeferre ushered him up to his apartment, draped him in a blanket, and put the kettle on. Jehan started out in Combeferre’s armchair, but ended up on the floor beside him in a matter of minutes as they sipped steaming mugs of tea. 

“What’s wrong?” Combeferre prompted gently. 

Jehan looked down.

And then he explained. He’d found a book of poetry -- something he’d never encountered before, that had moved him to tears. He acknowledge with a slight smile that he knew that wasn’t rare, but this was different. This was perfect. He’d never read anything more beautiful in all his life, and when it came to poetry -- he was painfully well-read. 

Combeferre smiled. 

Jehan went on to tell him that he wasn’t jealous. He knew what jealousy felt like, and that wasn’t what he was experiencing. It was despair. It was cold, brutal despair that gripped him, because he knew, having read perfection, that he would never be able to achieve that with his own words. 

It felt like seeing the face of God, he said, and knowing that nothing he witnessed from that point forward would ever be quite so beautiful. 

Combeferre listened patiently. 

The problem, therefore, was that Jehan wanted to give up writing poetry himself -- and that was why he’d come over. “I couldn’t tell Courfeyrac,” he mumbled over his mug. “He wouldn’t understand.”

Courfeyrac would have hugged him, kissed him, and promised him that everything would be alright. 

“Are you honestly thinking about giving up writing?” Combeferre asked. 

Jehan nodded. “I think I am.”

“Everyone has writers that they idolise. Even if you think you’ll never be that good, you shouldn’t let that stop you.”

“I tried a sonnet because at first I felt so inspired, but when I grabbed a pen, I couldn’t think of a single line. There were no words in my head. There still aren’t.”

“You’re in shock.”

“What if I never stop being shocked?”

Combeferre chuckled. “You will eventually. You know you will. But it’s up to you, if you think giving up is your only option.”

Jehan pouted slightly. “I’m not giving up...”

“You are.”

His pout deepened because he knew that Combeferre was right.

But that blunt reassurance was the exact reason that he’d come here -- to a man who might as well have been his own brother -- in the first place. Jehan huffed quietly. 

“I think you have the potential to be better than anyone,” Combeferre told him. “But it isn’t as easy as just jotting words down. You know that. You have to keep trying. There’s always going to be another poem that makes you feel like you’ve reached the end of the line, but it never is.”

Jehan hung his head. His hair fell into his eyes. 

Combeferre reached out and lifted his chin. “Do you really want to quit?” He asked.

Jehan’s head wobbled side to side on Combeferre’s fingers. 

“And you’re not going to. You’re going to keep writing until you’re better than that book you found. Until you’re better than the next book, and the book after that.”

“It was so perfect,” Jehan said mournfully. 

Combeferre let go of his chin and ruffled his hair. “So are you. Do you have it with you?”

Jehan pulled a small white book out of his bag.

“Find your favourite,” Combeferre told him, taking his mug. “I’ll get us more tea, and then you can read it to me.” He stood up and retreated to the kitchen. 

Finally warm enough to crawl out from under his blanket, Jehan pulled cushions off the chairs and build a little bed for them to sprawl out on. 

He’d known immediately that Combeferre was the right person to talk to. Combeferre was always the right person. He was always there for them, no matter what happened -- even, evidently, when he’d misplaced his phone for a few hours. 

“Were you doing something before I came over?” Jehan called to the kitchen as he spread the blanket out. 

“No, just reading,” Combeferre answered, almost automatically. 

He genuinely wasn’t even aware that it was a lie.


End file.
